Reflections
by Phantom-Voices
Summary: A collection of oneshots featuring Enjolras. Chapter 2: Enjolras contemplates Jehan. Not slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: A book based oneshot I came up with. I own nothing but the idea =) Written by A.**

Christmas 1826. A small town near Orleans. A lone boy wanders the windswept streets, boots crunching in the snow. The night is dark, and every so often, shadows flit through the gloom, but the boy neither looks round nor quickens his pace, and no one bothers him in the blizzard. He is young, perhaps eighteen, but he walks with a confident stride, head up, the gale tossing his wet blond curls over his squared shoulders as he wanders unhurriedly through the squall. His coat, barely visible in the dubious light of the street lamps, flaps across his chest, concealing the slightness of the figure beneath, who barely feels the icy bite of the air despite being clad in just a waistcoat and shirt, expensive and fine though they are.

One might wonder, if one was there to follow his haphazard progress through the town, why he has chosen such a night to make his journey, why he is not celebrating with family or friends, but perhaps he would not answer, simply drift away like the snowflakes that flutter from the sky as the storm begins to let up; indeed, he seems almost surreal as he wanders to and fro, and I wonder now if he is not but a figment of my imagination, a beautiful angel sprung from my loneliness. But no, he turns now and I see him clearly as he looks out across the lake, and I find myself studying him as he contemplates the water, his face carved as if from marble. He is evidently younger than I first imagined, but he has the look of someone much older. His cerulean eyes, filled with emotion his face could never show, appear to sparkle like sapphires in the weak light as he sighs, lifting his arm, perhaps to run his slender fingers through his wavy hair. This seems to pain him, for although he shows no sign of this in his face, he scowls and rubs thoughtfully at his shoulder as he returns his attention to the water.

I wonder what he is thinking, as I find myself [sentimental old fool] pitying this child who stands without shivering in the lightening snowstorm. Why is he there? Perhaps he is lonely, perhaps he has no friends with which to talk...But I digress...

My eyes are drawn one again to his face. His skin is pale like a girl's, but there is something about him that is decidedly male. Perhaps it is the way he stands, with a startling sort of elegance that resembles that of a swordsman. Or perhaps it is those eyes, strikingly blue amongst the curls that tumble over his brow. Or could it be that it is just he himself, complete: his fire, his beauty, his pride, his elegance. I do not know, and thus I return to watching.

He seems peaceful, studying the ripples in the dark water, but his body is tense even as his mind flies free, and every now and then he glances round with unseeing eyes, until upon swivelling his head so far, he is stopped, and turns back to the lake, leaning on the railings. Most of him is in darkness now; the street lamp is guttering, and I feel compelled to light a candle to brighten my work. Despite the sudden illumination in my window, the boy does not stir from his position, except to, after a few moments, rest his head gently on the cold iron of the fence. Behind him, although he cannot see it for his hair, free from its ribbon, is obscuring his eyes, a lantern is now moving through the darkness towards him. As it lights up the road, I draw back from my window to watch.

The man behind the lantern, although I cannot see his face well, seems angry as he searches the street, and my suspicions are confirmed as the flame lights up the boy and a shout pierces the night. From my position, I do not catch the words, but the boy leaps up with a certain amount of guilt and turns to face the man whom I now presume is his father. Memories of my own childhood make me flinch as the latter strikes his son in the face and hauls him away. He is shivering now, poor boy, but I suspect it is from cold rather than fear; he still walks tall, even under the wrath of his parents. He is a brave boy, and I can't help thinking he will be destined for greater things. And I will not pretend it is without bitterness that I say this, but he has the money and education to do so.

But he is gone now, leaving me to my musing. Who is he? I do not know. He has come and gone in my life like a lightning flash, but he has left behind these fleeting emotions, which my trembling fingers struggle to convey as I grip my quill and dip it unsteadily into my fading inkpot.

But I leave you now, with nothing but a name.

Emilié Babineaux.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Written by A. Many thanks to M for the initial idea and editing. Not slash.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of Les Miserables.**

The candle lends its guttering light to the worn pages beneath my fingers, droplets of wax gathering like beggars around its warmth. Time passes, they harden there, and the light grows dimmer, until I must reach out to pull it closer, huddled in its flicker of illumination.

The rain drums ceaselessly against the window, but I am long since deaf to its distraction. Such disturbances are of no problem to me; I have passed many nights in this way, and I have found that the silence has its own song, its own sweet melody.

No, it is at the feverish scratching of your quill that I look up from my book. The noise grates a little on my ears, and I find myself wondering that you are still here, not home in bed as you should be. I stifle a yawn, brushing my hair from my forehead. It is late, perhaps midnight, and my attention is beginning to wander from the task in hand. Sighing, I let the book slip soundlessly onto the table, and rest my hands behind my neck, stretching a little.

"You are not going home?" I ask quietly, not wanting to startle you. Indeed, you are so engrossed in your work that I doubt that you're aware of my presence. I am not then surprised when you do not answer. A smile ghosts on my lips and I sink deeper into the chair. So often have I been told that I fail to listen when I am working. The thought strikes me suddenly, and I wonder how it is possible for two men to be so alike yet so completely different.

There you are, sitting across the room from me, lost in your world of poetry, and I think that it is no wonder the sky is so dark tonight, you have stolen the stars from their kingdom; they linger in your eyes with such a fire that I feel when I think of the republic.

Yes, despite our differences, we are alike.

Absent-mindedly tugging at my cravat, I contemplate what it would be to be a romantic, a bohemian, like you. Is it really so different, can man really gain so much freedom from art, from philosophy? Perhaps I would ask you, but you are still scribbling away. But then again, even if you were not, perhaps I would not question you, you who call me Apollo, who wonder if I care. You are fooled by the mask that is my shield against the world, as those who do not know you cannot see past your flamboyant exuberance. I care. Even if you cannot see it, I care. I would weep for every beggar on the street if I knew how, I would embrace you like the friend you are if I could just let go of this façade, if I could let it shatter on the cobbles like the fragments of my emotions I can never show. But you are free, while we are in chains, and I feel a stab of envy that I soon crush because I chose my path and one day we will _all _be free.

A sudden silence brings me back to reality. You have stopped writing, and, resisting the urge to turn to you, I become aware of your gaze as I watch the raindrops run down the windowpane, washing away the grime of the Paris daytime. There is something melancholy about the moment, the spell of night time is broken and I think that perhaps you are not so free after all. There is a difference in your movements now; you move quietly, as if you are afraid of me. Stirring, I turn to face you, and the light of passion is gone from your eyes. You see the darkness for the first time. You take in the storm, the cold, and something hardens within you. The poet has left his fantasy world.

You rise, gathering up your papers and tucking them into your coat. There is a reluctance in your step as you drift over to the door, staring out without inspiration into the gloomy night. Your feet drag with the chains that bind you to reality, tying you down like a caged bird, longing to fly free.

"You are not going home?" you ask me, turning at the door to face me again.

I shake my head slowly, suppressing a smile as you repeat my earlier words. Then the night swallows you and I am alone again, and the darkness creeps into my bones. Closing my book, I rise to leave, lingering for a moment in the door where you stood.

Yes, despite our differences, we are alike.

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